That's Not Santa!
by SylverSpyder
Summary: A two-shot Christmas prequel to the The Stranger and the Spy files.
1. Chapter 1

Amazingly, I actually own most of this chapter. Imagine that! The next one- Not so much. I don't own Jack or any of the Alex Rider series. Any relation to living, breathing people and real-life situations is accidental. I would say coincidental but I don't believe in coincidents.

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><p>Shiny brown curls shook as the four year old jumped to try and get a better view of what was in front of him. All he could see though, was the butt of the sixty-five year old woman ahead of him who walked really slowly and pinched passing kids' cheeks. At the memory, Wes put a hand up to his own cheek with a frown. This wasn't turning out to be much fun... Above him, his Aunt's cheery voice broke into his thoughts.<p>

"Here we are, Wes!" The perpetually cheery senior in high school had seemed more excited than usual at the prospect of the surprise she had in store for her young nephew.

Glancing at his surprise, Wes' eyes widened in surprise at the view of the fat man in the red suit lounging on the small platform, surrounded by men and women in bright green leggings.

Taking Wes' shock for joy, Jack scooped up the young child and, before he could protest, set him on the man's lap. She then retreated happily behind a small camera.

Wes looked up at the stranger and spoke quietly in his high pitched four-year-old voice.

"I don't know who you are, but you're obviously not the fictitious character known as Santa Clause or in some places, Saint Nicholas, but my Aunt seems to think so, so would you mind playing along? I don't want to ruin her delusions." Wes said resignedly to the man, plastering on a grin for his overzealous aunt.

Matthew Jones, a forty-year old cashier at the Macy's in the D.C. mall felt his mouth drop open behind the irritating fake beard. He tried to recover.

"But... how... of course I'm Santa!" He spluttered.

"Shhh..." Wes poked the bottom of Matthew's jaw, closing the man's mouth. "You're supposed to smile." He showed Matthew how, baring his tiny white baby teeth in the direction of the camera. "And," he spoke without moving his lips from the frozen expression. "It was obvious. You wear no wedding ring yet Santa Clause is said to be married. You wear a white beard yet your eyebrows are black. The beard is fake. You're too fat to fit through anyone's chimney, and not all people have chimney's anyways. Reindeer do not fly, and most importantly, Santa is not real. To reach every child's house in one night defies physics almost as much as flying reindeer."

Smiling along now, Matthew raised his eyebrows.

Wes' slim four year old shoulders raised in a shrug, as if to say "that's obvious." Matthew had a feeling that to the kid, it was.

The kid then smiled up at him, baby teeth gleaming. "Besides, your wallet says you're Matthew Jones of 225 Chester Lane. 'Santa' lives at the North pole."

A tiny hand slipped into Mathews large one, depositing the pick-pocketed wallet in his palm. Matthew jumped, his eyebrows knitting in surprise.

"Smile," Wes reminded him. "Your secret is safe with me."

A few feet away, Jack finished snapping her photos and Wes slid off of Matthew's lap. He held up a hand for a handshake. No longer surprised, Matthew accepted it. Wes nodded solemnly at their silent agreement then turned around. Watching, Matthew was amazed by how quickly the kid shifted characters.

"Jack! Jack! I just met Santa Clause, can you believe it!" He bounced away, gripping his Aunt's hand.

Jack turned her face towards Matthew before they were out of view. "Thank you." She mouthed.

As the two turned the corner, Matthew, staring after them, saw Wes give him a quick wink, and then they were gone, and it was the next girl in line's turn.

"Santa! Santa! I want a pony for Christmas!" The exuberant little girl shrieked. Matthew sighed and wondered about who the little boy had been...

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><p>Later that day, as Matthew took his lunch break, he opened his wallet to get some cash out. A note fell from one of the pockets.<p>

Written in the stilted script of a young child, the note read, "Dear Matthew, The 'elf' on the far left taking pictures is running a credit card scam on the parents. Merry Christmas. -Wes"

Matthew shook his head, a small smile on his face.


	2. Chapter 2

Alex Rider lifted wide, innocent brown eyes up to look at Ian Rider. The man didn't seem to realize he was the subject of the three-year-old's scrutiny. Alex tugged on Ian's pant leg, trying to grab his attention. Ian glanced down.

"What," Alex hesitated. "What if Santa doesn't like me? What if he's mean?"

Ian couldn't help but smile at his little nephew who looked so scared and dejected. Kneeling on the ground beside Alex, oblivious to the people skirting around him, he reassured his vulnerable-looking nephew. "Alex, Santa is a good guy. Of course he'll like you. What's not to like?"

Mildly reassured, Alex slid his small hand up and grasped two of Ian's fingers.

Standing, Ian led Alex to the line of kids waiting to meet Santa.

When Alex finally reached his jolly, red-suited hero, he smiled shyly and had to be propelled in the right direction by Ian as he was suddenly afraid to move forward. Finally, he clambered meekly onto Santa's lap. "Hello." He whispered, unable to reach Santa's eyes.

With a genial smile, Santa jostled the boy on his lap. "Look up, kid. Your dad's trying to take a picture."

Alex's forehead knit up in puzzlement. Shouldn't Santa know that Ian's not his dad?

"So, kid, whaddya want for Christmas?" Santa asked gruffly. His eyes followed Ian's movements as his cellphone rang and he trotted off to answer it somewhere quieter. Santa's hands tightened around Alex. He glanced around, noticing the sudden lack of parents in the area.

"I want a bike, please." Alex murmured.

Santa sent the kid a smile. "Why don't we go get you one? Come on..." He climbed off of his chair and took Alex by the hand. In hurried steps, he led Alex toward the doors, by the end practically dragging him. As he walked, his jacket hiked up. Come on, he thought. You got the kid. Suddenly, he cried out as his shin exploded with pain.

"What the hell, kid?"

Alex raised his foot and kicked Santa again, this time missing the shin and hitting something admittedly more painful.

"That's not Santa!" He shouted. "Ian says Santa is nice and Ian says people with guns are mean! That's not Santa!" The revelation sent an outcry through all of the kids in the area as they swarmed to get a look at the imposter.

A security guard headed towards the commotion and found a pack of kids kicking a now thoroughly harassed man with a fake beard dangling off one side of his face. Not-Santa sent the security guard a pleading look.

"Look here, kids, what's going on?"

Alex answered the guards question. "We're not supposed to talk to strangers, especially not another one with a gun."

"Another one?" The guard asked.

Alex flashed a smile and held one hand up, showing a 9mm glock. "That's not Santa." He said glumly.

Within moments, the guard had dispersed the kids and carted Santa away in handcuffs, takin the gun and patting Alex on the head as he left, congratulating him on a job well done.

A few days later, Ian was called into the bank where Blunt calmly informed him that Eleazor Berschmein, a terrorist who had been seeking revenge on Ian for several months now, had been apprehended by local police after a surprise incident in a nearby shopping distract. Ian nodded and headed home, where he printed off the pictures from the other day, smiling at the image of his diminutive nephew in Santa's lap.

He headed to Alex's room to show him. Alex just took one glance at the picture and looked Ian sadly in the eye. "That's not Santa." He said, then returned to his Leggos. Ian briefly wondered about the sudden shange in perspective then shrugged it off. It was probably just part of Alex being three. "Kids," he sighed.

As Alex watched Ian walk away from the corner of his eye, he smiled. The Fake-Santa had been right about one thing. In every way that was important, Ian was Alex's dad.


End file.
